


Sagittarii

by chonideno



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Author Is Bad At Plot, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Secret Identity, Strangers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 00:57:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chonideno/pseuds/chonideno
Summary: Magnus Bane has quick hands. Alec Lightwood has eyes everywhere. One day they mind their own (illegal) business, the next they're up against each other.Or the story of how two men who keep lying to themselves find one another through layers of smokes and mirrors.





	Sagittarii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Magnus Bane has quick hands. He opens locks with them, he digs in heavy safes with them, he picks jewelry with them. They have seen plans, they have seen gemstones, they have seen minuscule pieces of electronics containing secret information. He never reads any of it. He doesn’t want to know; it’s not his job to know. His job is to find, to bring, to protect. The only thing he cares about, at the end of the day, is to find room between his light fingers for a big, fat check._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the Spies AU I've been talking about for months, finally! I have 4 chapters planned and I'm going to try to update every week so it should be over in a month or so. I'm currently very, very close to graduating so I'm pretty busy (and irremediably stupid for deciding to start a fic now), so maybe my writing schedule will shift. Thanks for your patience!

Magnus Bane has quick hands.

His light fingers got him his current job, and the one before that. They’re his guarantee and his most precious possession. He heard he could even get them insured, but it’s not a common thing to do in his side of the industry. He avoids contracts like the plague; signatures, paper trails, names to write down. They’re not part of his life. In truth, he avoids most things people tend to cling to: faces, habits, places and hobbies, he avoids. Street names, trinkets, souvenirs and plane tickets, he avoids. People, clubs, children, he avoids. Magnus doesn’t keep, he doesn’t cherish; he throws, he trashes, he spills and never cleans. What he leaves behind is a chaotic, thoughtfully disorganized print, unpredictable movements in which even he cannot see a pattern.

Magnus Bane has quick hands. He opens locks with them, he digs in heavy safes with them, he picks jewelry with them. They have seen plans, they have seen gemstones, they have seen minuscule pieces of electronics containing secret information. He never reads any of it. He doesn’t want to know; it’s not his job to know. His job is to find, to bring, to protect. The only thing he cares about, at the end of the day, is to find room between his light fingers for a big, fat check.

Magnus Bane has dirty hands. He doesn’t mind them. He always washes away the dust, he cleans the mud from under his nails, he doesn’t give enough time to the blood for it to settle within the fine lines. He has cramps, sometimes; steel is heavy to carry, flesh even more so. His knuckles are familiar with bones, with teeth, with pain; deeper under the skin, his fingers have played with meat, when he didn’t have the choice. He doesn’t think about it. He never thinks about it. He’s not thinking about it right now.

Magnus Bane knows knives, and guns, and rifles. Magnus Bane knows planes, and trains, and hotels. He knows streets and the people in cafés. He knows suits, he knows cigars by the smoke and currencies by the _cling_ of the metal on the counter. Magnus Bane knows accents; he’s tasted most of them, he’s let them roll off his tongue and all over him, because that’s the easiest price to pay for information. Magnus Bane knows gold most of all, and gold follows him wherever he goes, loyal and full of promises, like a dog with claws too sharp. Hell is not paved with good intentions; it’s flooded in gold, each square inch of its legendary catwalk shinier than the other, and it attracts men like Magnus, it calls – naturally, in their weakness, men like Magnus answer.

Men like Magnus are not as rare as they seem. Ragnor is one of them. They found each other between lies decades ago and never let go. Somewhere, at the bottom of himself, Magnus thinks he should; he should let go, since constants only bring bad news. They’re too traceable, they’re too usable. If someone finds Ragnor, they find him. Worse, if someone finds him, they find Ragnor. He’d never forgive himself. But Ragnor is what he is; Hell calls him too, and when he answers, he doesn’t leave a mark behind him. Because Magnus spills, Magnus dirties everything up, but Ragnor cleans and polishes. Ragnor hides them both, destroys maps, makes their territory uncharted to any other pair of eyes wherever they go. Ragnor is Magnus’ safety, and Magnus pays him back well.

When gold calls, men who answer end up rich; pockets full of Hell, mouth foaming with riddles, Magnus and Ragnor hide so well they don’t have to run.

So when they’ve been idle for too long, when _freedom_ is replaced by _boredom_ , when they want to be found, Ragnor makes sure they are. Then, on a blessed morning, Hell calls, and he answers. Dutiful, Ragnor gives Magnus an address, a name, a target, _anything_ ; Magnus always smiles, promises to be back soon, and he goes.

Magnus Bane has quick hands. He burned his fingerprints a lifetime ago. The acid bit into the pulp of his palms, scorched what was forced on him; he stole his own identity, he trapped himself on the other side of a line you can only cross once and never looked back. Most days, he likes to think that’s why he’s so good at what he does – the weight of it is gone, there’s no burden carved in the skin. When he uses his hands, there’s nothing making them heavy, nothing that would remind him they’re more than a tool. These hands could be anyone’s.

When he crosses borders, these hands are sometimes David’s, sometimes Idris’, sometimes Kadir’s, sometimes Henry’s. There’s beauty in the way modern information circulates. It’s too easy to lie, when you know Ragnor. Once he leaves his partner’s side, Magnus ceases to exist; he doesn’t need a mask, he doesn’t need a made-up identity, he simply reforms, rebuilds, rearranges. Magnus Bane is long gone by the time a man with no fingerprints sits on the plane.

Window seat with extra leg room. Always.

 

* * *

 

He’s called Adam when he arrives in Italy. Adam looks for a necklace. It’s sunny but not too bright, it’s warm but not too hot; Adam isn’t there for tourism. He doesn’t stop by the statues that have watched empires fall, he doesn’t contemplate the passing of time sitting by towering trees, he doesn’t pay homage to visionaries in temples built for them. He’s not part of the people, of the flow. There are many ladies lounging around under palm trees, their skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, all radiant in peach and taupe. There are many men perfecting their tan on terraces, lazily stretching in all their grace, parading around in tank tops and flowing haircuts. All these people, this buzzing mass dripping in the lukewarm water of marble fountains, teaching their children to enjoy summer; all of this is none of what Adam is here for.

When he finds the necklace, it’s nested between the collarbones of a beautiful woman; as elegant as she is powerful, the wife of a Prince makes her way down the hall of a hotel with millions worth of shine sitting against her skin. It suits her so well it would almost break Magnus’ heart to separate her from the gift she was given, but Adam has a job to do, and so he does it. Following the gold, he finds the diamond; spiking drinks is easy, picking locks is easier, and so he leaves Italy two days later, luggage a bit heavier, hands still as light.

 

* * *

 

He’s called Cecil when he lands in Luxemburg. Cecil has a thing for small boxes engraved with jade. Cecil craves the touch of what hasn’t been possessed in centuries, what has just been found, what gathers a murder of crows ready to eat one another just to be able to claim, to have, to keep. Where there’s money, there are wolves; leather fits them well and tight suits almost hide their true intentions. They’re not written on their sleeves, these wishes they have. They’re not under the silk and the cashmere and even though they all look handsome, professional, desirable, these men have teeth for a tongue, these men speak in blood spells, these men call death upon each other, and so death they receive.

Cecil never raises a hand, he never strikes, he never watches pupils go from ablaze to dim. Cecil only whispers, because that’s what he does. He takes ideas and puts them where he knows they’ll belong; behind the ears of thirsty hounds, behind the eyes of paranoids, words do more tricks than any light hands could ever do. Wolves turn to sheep turn to carcasses; once the morning has risen, Cecil leaves because he can and his name is nowhere to be found in the guest book.

 

* * *

 

He’s called Oliver in New Zealand. Oliver likes paper with small lines written at the bottom. He likes watching people squirm, their jaw clench when they remember they forgot to read it. He likes finding piles on desks, piles with names on it, names who have paid him. Oliver will be alive for a week at most, and for his entire life, he will find no better comfort than in the warm whisper of burning contracts. It’s easy, straightforward; he just needs the key to a room, and he knows where to get keys. People always have them, and people are easy to crack.

When Oliver comes back to the hotel lobby and pours himself a glass of something anyone called Magnus would never drink, he nods at the barman, because he’s nice like that. He plays with a toothpick, because he’s fidgety like that. He mindlessly watches a man in a suit sip on a Martini, because he’s air-headed like that. He plays his part, the part of Oliver, alive until Tuesday, and when the man in the suit smiles, he smiles back.

 

* * *

 

He’s called Seth in London. Seth is here for a name. Seth has light luggage and he asked for a Bible in his room. Seth takes long baths, doesn’t eat breakfast and spends absurd amounts of time in a bowling alley, three bus stations away from his hotel. There’s a girl who works there; long hair, naïve blue eyes, a chanting voice and a laugh just as charming. She’s cute and Seth loves her. He truly does. It’s all over his face, his smile – he invites her out and takes her hand, looks at her in the eyes when he tells her that in a week, he’ll have to go away for a job, but he wants to spend some time with her. She knows it. She still laughs at her jokes, because Seth is funny. She has a brother. This brother has a phone. This phone has a single number saved on it, and when Seth sends it to Ragnor, he gets a name in return. If anyone asks, Seth doesn’t know Ragnor, and Ragnor has never met Seth.

She’s heartbroken, of course. They often are. Seth ignores her texts while sitting at the hotel bar, because Magnus would never read them. She’s already in the past now; all that’s present is this cup of warm tea and his plane ticket for tomorrow. Seth doesn’t smile at the waitress, not today; he lowers his cup, picks up a newspaper and sighs. Two tables away, a man in a suit sits down, eyes lost somewhere behind the window. He doesn’t look lost, just tired, as business men often are. Magnus wastes two seconds watching him over the edge of his newspaper; when he blinks, Seth turns a page and decides he’d have preferred some coffee after all.

 

* * *

 

“Could I have your name, please?”

“Smith. Gabriel.”

The receptionist types away at her keyboard, gently smiling as receptionists tend to do after 7 hours shifts.

“Welcome, mister Smith,” she beams after a second, sliding a card over the counter along with a passport that has seen better days. “Here is the key to your room. The elevator is on your right. We serve breakfast from 6 to 10,” she recites, not letting the fatigue get to her.

Magnus nods and thanks her before picking up his suitcase. The flat heels of his shoes do not make a sound against the perfectly steamed carpet of the hall when he makes his way to the elevators. Richly decorated, the hotel lobby drowns whoever has enough money in this golden, sunset haze Magnus can only appreciate. Not a lot of hotels know how to perfectly balance decadence and sophistication.

After pressing the elevator button, Gabriel stands straight. Gabriel has perfect posture, reads Arabic poetry in waiting rooms and knits in his free time. He’s a man of composure and knows more about Ming dynasty ceramics than he’d ever show.

“Hi,” a voice emerges from next to the counter, “I have a reservation.”

“Of course, could I have your name please?” the brave receptionist repeats.

“Smith. Jonathan,” the man answers after fumbling in his pockets for something.

Gabriel tilts his head. He would never eavesdrop on anyone’s conversation, of course. He’d never do that.

“Welcome, mister Smith,” the receptionist parrots after moment. “Here is the key to your room, and your ID. The elevators are your right. We serve breakfast from 6 to 10!”

“Thank you very much,” the man politely answers.

The elevators ding, and Gabriel steps inside; he pushes the button of the 4th floor but lets the doors close on their own. He’s not in the mood to find himself alone with a stranger in an elevator. Magnus never is.

The doors close quickly, but not before Magnus catches the betrayed glare of a man in a suit apparently eager to get to his room. Dark hair falling over sharp features are never a good omen, but Magnus knows he’s seen him before. His memory rarely fails him.

At dinner, the man in a suit has both hands around a phone and only vegetables on his plate; there’s nothing odd about him, nothing out of the ordinary, and that’s what makes Magnus tick. Jonathan Smith is vegan, he wears Boglioli blends and pays in cash, he runs his hand through his hair like former high school jocks do and sits alone in the dinner hall of French hotels.

Gabriel Smith is intrigued; Magnus Bane is worried.

“Are we being followed?” he asks Ragnor that night.

“Not that I know of,” Ragnor answers through the phone, “do you think someone’s behind you?”

Magnus opens his mouth but does not say _yes_ ; instead he plays it down and decides to sit and watch. There are two Smiths in this hotel and he’s pretty sure neither of them have been given this name by their father.

 

* * *

 

Alec Lightwood has eyes everywhere. He has cameras where no one will look and microphones where everyone will talk. Doing his job is easy when one has the resources he has – the powerhouse he was born in grants him access to whatever he wants, in whoever’s name. He’s always preferred field work though, even more so when Izzy comes along for the ride. As much as he likes to have her by his side during missions, he can’t blame her for staying back though. Fieldwork is often routine, after all.

Alec Lightwood has power, though not as much as his father. His name granted him his seat yet he never uses any of the letters; he hides, like most, behind fake papers, because that’s what the job entails. Even more so as a rookie. He’s young, he knows it – he hates it. He can’t wait for the experience, for the ability to do what he wants, what he likes, to choose his own name. One day, he tells himself, he’ll direct their agency himself; one day, but for now he’s not a Lightwood. He’s a Murphy, he’s a Yen, he’s a Wilson; he takes planes and sleeps in trains so more people with his name can gather some sweet, sweet intel. Trusted amongst many, he’s the one they send when dozens of cameras aren’t enough.

The hands he catches always end up in shackles; he never visits the men behind the bars but his father rolls around in their gold.

Alec Lightwood has eyes everywhere; for the past 6 months, he’s had eyes on a bird he’s never caught. He’s moving fast, this one – too fast for cameras, too silently for microphones, too well for records. Either he’s a civilian who coincidentally travels to all kinds of interesting places right when interesting things happen, or he’s a pawn on a chess table Alec can’t see entirely. Push the pawn and you find the playing field; Alec follows, he hides, he slithers. The bird is good though, he never takes a side step, he never shows his hand. He has no name and he has a dozen, that’s all Alec knows and that’s more than enough.

Tonight the bird is a Smith.

Alec has eyes everywhere and he’s seen enough to know cornering the bird and forcing him to answer questions will not help. He has no proof, he has nothing besides sheer intuition, so he decides to do something else. Pressure, that’s what he’s good at. He can keep eye contact. He can stress him out. If the bird panics, he will show it. He will side step. He will leave a trail, a hint, an open door. Alec will follow, like predators do, because that’s what he knows, and that’s all he’ll do.

On a Sunday night, the bird plays pool. Alec watches him from afar, elbows tempted to sink into the mahogany of the bar. Gabriel Smith plays alone and he plays well; under the dim lights of the carpeted room, he has a table for himself and refuses to share. The yellow in the lighting seems to have been picked just for him – there aren’t many men who can brag of being brought to their best under these old lights but the bird dances and shines, walking around the table like he’d waltz around a lady. The velvet all around him, all deep greens and luxurious maroons, only flatter his suit and loose tie; if Alec is not mistaken, there are even reflects of dye in his hair. Whether it’s a color that faded well or a carefully-chosen character trait, Alec cannot tell. All he knows is that Gabriel probably isn’t called Gabriel. He’s a gorgeous man though, what a shame he doesn’t truly carry the name of the angel.

The bird hums the tone of a comfortable jazz song that lazily smothers the atmosphere, swinging his hips softly as he follows the sax. There’s a glass on the side of his table, from which he sips from time to time. Alec can’t tell what’s in there, only that Gabriel seems to like it. He wonders if that, too, is a lie.

He downs his own drink in one go and puts his glass back on the counter. There’s no reason for him to stay down here too late, at least not today. Still, he keeps his eyes on the bird when he pushes his cushioned stool back; the feet scrape against the floor, not so loud that it disturbs all patrons around but just enough that someone who was paying attention would notice.

Alec’s all-seeing eyes catch Gabriel’s before he leaves the room; he carves his face in the back of his mind, as if he needed another reminder of what he looks like, and promises to find him again tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Alec feels like prey.

Something has changed in the bird’s behavior, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. He doesn’t seem surprised, he doesn’t look like he’s the one being observed. It’s like _he knows_ , which would make sense; after all, that’s Alec plan. But he shouldn’t react like that to realizing that he’s being followed. He shouldn’t _parade_. He shouldn’t walk like the king of the castle when he enters the hotel, he shouldn’t order the chef’s special loud and clear, he shouldn’t look at Alec straight in the eyes when the 8 ball falls into the hole on his last shot.

Alec feels like prey, and he doesn’t like it.

When the lights fall low in the hotel’s basement, darkening the frown of all patrons, when the night envelops the city in a thick coat of silence, Alec is at his most tense. The bird isn’t afraid now; if he looks up, they’ll probably make eye contact. If he enters an empty elevator, Gabriel will probably slither between the doors. Alec may be relatively new on the field but he’s not a fool – he refuses to give any opportunity, any idea to someone who probably knows how to kill. He’s seen pictures, he’s watched videos of men who have tried their luck and will never have any chance to try it again.

Those hands could probably strangle a grown man and Alec is not going to check if his instincts are right.

He won’t be intimidated. He won’t sit and watch as the bird pushes back. He’s only a bringer of curses, this bird, only a creature of bad omens; he’ll put him in a cage and make him sing.

 

* * *

 

There isn’t much to do during the day when you’re supposed to wait for your target in a hotel, so Alec walks around the city. In truth, if he lived any other life, he’d gladly buy a modest house in southern France and spend his summers there. Sinuous streets carved from stone guide him from hidden treasure to hidden treasure and when he finds an open space, the winds bring him lavender over orange blossom over citrus, wave after wave. There’s a flow in the high grass, like sand cascading down a dune, that keeps part of his soul at peace. The sea isn’t even that far and if he closes his eyes, he can hear it in his sleep.

The rare times he goes to lose himself in the crowd, it never lasts long. He’s not that good at maneuvering through herds of people. Too much noise, too much contact. He never knows who is what, he can’t see everything, he can’t remember all the faces.

Two hands against the small of his back do not allow him to look for a face; by the time he turns around, startled, the tree has vanished in the forest. The memory of the contact burns his skin – the fingers, splayed like wings, refuse to disappear. Alec turns again but there’s nothing to see, only people being the crowd and the crowd being people, moving on its own like a dune under the wind.

 

* * *

 

On a Monday night, Gabriel Smith checks out. By Tuesday morning, Jonathan Smith’s room is empty.

 

* * *

 

“It could be anyone,” Ragnor says. “I haven’t noticed any suspicious activity on any of my radars.”

Magnus furrows his brows. “He was definitely after me.”

They look at each other in silence for a moment. Ragnor shakes his head, visibly trying to come up with something.

“Do you think he traced us, somehow?” Magnus continues.

Ragnor hums, his eyes unfocused. _I’m thinking_ , he says without speaking, and Magnus lets him. To pass the time, he pours them drinks, the heavy decanter reflecting light against the wooden table as he does, and pushes a laser-cut glass towards Ragnor.

“We’re freelancers,” Magnus starts again with a tone he tries to keep warm. “It’s not like we’re very _traceable_.”

Ragnor nods slowly at this, understandably not convinced. Eventually he lifts his head back up, blinks a couple of times and exhales slowly. When Magnus raises his glass, he does the same and cheers:

“May you keep him off your tracks.”

Magnus tilts his head.

“You know I will,” he promises with a knowing smile.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t.

When Craig Brown sits down at a table in Romania, the only other person sitting in the restaurant is a man in a suit.

He opted for a dark navy, which is impeccable taste for someone with eyes like his. Already busy eating a choice piece of beef, the man pretends he doesn’t notice Magnus sitting down. Fascinated by an opinion piece in a local newspaper, he doesn’t spare a look in his direction, doesn’t make a move, doesn’t provoke the eye contact Magnus had thought he would try to go for.

Magnus refuses to be ignored like that. This man doesn’t have the right to make him waste his time; he’s here for a reason, not to play hide and seek with a stalker.

Craig orders the beef too, and a coffee for table 4.

The man in the suit raises his eyebrows at the cup he didn’t order but doesn’t turn his head; instead, he drinks it slowly, still appreciating whatever article he’s found when turning a page. Stretching his long legs under the table, he sometimes scratches at his neck when he’s really focused. The sun setting outside of the hotel cuts his profile with a soft haze; his lids look heavy, lower than they should be if he was alert and ready to work. Raising peacefully, his chest follows a deep, slow breathing pattern, sign Magnus knows to be of a strong heart and healthy pair of lungs. He has a width under his suit, a size the best cut couldn’t hide – probably a fighter, maybe trained with firearms too. His belt is naked though, and with the backlight, Magnus has a hard time to tell if he hides any blades under his Tom Ford two-piece.

The coffee cup is left empty on the table before Craig Brown finishes his meal. The man stands up and crosses the dinner hall, but not before looking at Magnus straight in the eyes and smiling wide; it’s less a way to say thank you than it is to bare his teeth at someone who’s in the way.

 

* * *

 

Craig Brown runs at 6 in the morning, eats his eggs sunny side up and has never smoked a cigarette. He doesn’t love men, women or anyone in between; he loves design, racing cars and 18th century painters.

He drinks whiskey. He drinks whiskey, one leg bouncing on steel pipe under the bar, three fingers on the glass and two in the air. He drinks whiskey and he likes it chill, old, with a hint of oak. He likes it when the bar is almost empty, and Armstrong unravels the story of lost men over the radio. He likes it when it’s him, the crystal and the wood, when the crinkle over the speakers is the only thing that reminds him the music isn’t in his head. He feels like a figurehead then, only face he knows in a foreign bar, holding an almost empty glass on which he’ll leave no fingerprints.

Sometimes Magnus is there. He shouldn’t drink whiskey when he has another name but sometimes he does. Ragnor says he should stop. Ragnor is always right.

He brings the glass to his lips again. For tonight it’s okay.

He’s not alone anyway.

On the other side of the bar, straight ahead, the man in the suit has lost his tie. He has a beer he’ll never drink entirely, not with this face he pulls after each sip. Magnus doesn’t know which name he has tonight, but it doesn’t matter. The man looks at him the way he’d stare at a pretty girl across the bar, with these _I’ll pay your drinks_ kind of eyes, these _how you doin’_ kind of manners. Slightly hunched on his side, he puts most of his weight on one elbow and lets his other hand dance over the counter. Shamelessly, Magnus stares back as he takes another sip from his whiskey. He, too, can give these vibes; he likes to think he’s quite good at it, maybe the best out of everyone he knows. He knows the cat eyes, he knows the subtle sighs, the rise and fall of the shoulders like movie stars do. He knows charisma.

Craig Brown isn’t charismatic, but Magnus Bane is. And tonight, Magnus wears his own name for the sake of the challenge.

There isn’t much he has to do. Just kiss this glass the right way when he drinks, just sit straight up like powerful men do – this he knows. He won’t be intimidated. He won’t be walked over.

The man in the suit badly hides a grin and downs half of his beer in one go; regret paints his face immediately but he tries to contain it. How old could he be? Barely 25, maybe. He still has something true to him, something fragile that Magnus has smothered long ago. He may look like he could fight but his pretty face doesn’t belong there. Soft fabric and polished gold and rivers of rubies would fit him in another life, but not at a guard dog, not as a boy trying to come chin to chin with people who burn their own hands. Mellow blues and Cuban cigars aren’t for him, not when they come with bloody money and chopped fingers. The cozy warmth of underground poker rooms, the alluring temptation of glossy skin and feather boas, the groans of the ones you pay and the giggles of the ones you pay for – none of this could fit such a pretty boy.

The man in the suit licks his lips to catch some foam and there’s a shine in his eyes that the golden lights did not put there. He’s silent – everyone’s favorite girl, Ella, sings about love again and Magnus finishes his glass. It hits the counter with a clear _thud_.

He’ll destroy the pretty boy.

He’ll make a point to ruin him like he’d ruin fresh snow, delightfully rough him up like no one had before, like a petulant child too happy to get the first bite of a perfectly frosted cake.

He’ll make him look at Craig right in the eyes while he does it, or maybe he’ll be a Mark then, or a Joseph, or a Sahand. He’ll make him regret ever trying to intimidate him, to be a cat to his mouse, to make him raise so many questions. He’s too smooth, the boy, he’s too slippery; there’s nothing on his fake ID but everything on his face and Magnus knows this is a bad combination.

The man in the suit can’t read his mind but he sure looks like he’s trying.

Ragnor was right, Magnus reminds himself again as he makes his way back to his room. Ragnor is always right. Whiskey brings him to the surface, where he can be seen, where he can be touched. Magnus would lie if he said he doesn’t thrive in the thrill of it.

 

* * *

 

Alec has never been one for card games growing up; Jace would constantly beat him at everything, throw his deck on the floor and pull fifths aces out of nowhere. But Alec knows dice, he craves their weight in his palm. It makes him sweat. Not many things do, these days. It’s a vice, really, and it’s not part of what he lets other people see. Not quite like himself. Still, he enjoys them when he’s on mission. Helps him socialize.

The bird doesn’t play. The bird stays busy, he goes where Alec can’t follow. For the entire evening, he’s gone. Alec tried to bug his vest earlier this morning but when he followed the ping, he found the tracker stuck under the pool table. He may not truly know who he’s up against but at least he likes his sense of humor.

The other patrons around the craps table all have the aura of spoiled kids squeezed into layers of the most expensive fabrics they could get their hands on. Pockets are empty but purses and clutches overflow with absurdly pricey items; phone encased with precious stones, bills from another country and lucky charms only heiresses can afford stack on top of each other, trickle between knuckles like water for demigods. Shoulders padded with splendid furs, waists accentuated by hand-knitted lace – it’s all for show, yet it works. Sumptuous, graceful, these ladies have somehow earned the right to flaunt their lavish lifestyle in front of other ladies just like them, in front of men just as magnificent, in front of casinos employees who haven’t had a break in 6 hours.

It’s almost suffocating. Izzy is better at this than him, but Alec still has a job to do. He may be hunting a special bird, he can still keep an eye on where the most influent families of the continent spend their Thursday nights.

When his turn comes, a middle-aged woman cheers him on; she holds her head high and keeps her voice under control and as such, she reminds Alec of a duchess, with all the satin and all the sapphires that come with the title.

Alec throws the dice and hears two men applauding his luck; he doesn’t look at the dots on the dice, he doesn’t care about how well he did, he forgets about the furs and the silk and the heads that could carry crowns because suddenly there’s a hand on the small of his back, simply resting there like it belongs right over the dimples of his hips. Alec wishes he could turn around but something holds him back and he can’t tell why, and before he thinks it over, another hand appears to his left and leaves a glass on the edge of the table. It’s amber, beautifully so, and it dances against the crystal.

For a fraction of a second, Alec could swear he feels someone’s breath against his ear, something barely trying to be subtle. His blood runs cold but there’s a warmth against his neck, there’s the heat of someone who had to lean in to offer him a drink. Five fingers push delicately into his back, leaving an imprint there.

And then they’re gone.

Alec turns around before the ladies are done congratulating him for his shot but there’s no one behind him, if merely the empty space in the crowd where a man could fit. His back is burning, pulling, tearing at the touch, as if the hand was still there, as if he could still catch it, read it, put it where it belongs.

He doesn’t know where it belongs.

Alec knows better than to drink whiskey gifted by an apparition. He takes the glass, empties it in the bathroom sink and when he looks in the mirror, he has to think to remember the name he gave himself this morning.

 

* * *

 

In the next plane, Magnus is called Caleb. Window seat, extra leg room, because some things never change.

Ragnor looked tired when he left him. None of the information he pulled from the bug he found in his vest back in Romania proved valuable. He already knows he’ll find a familiar face in Australia. He doesn’t want to know how this face will find him.

The kid next to him falls asleep on his shoulder. He allows it.

 

* * *

 

There’s a red dot on the floor of Magnus’ hotel room.

He knows this shade of red better than he knows the color of blood. Vibrant, almost neon, it imperceptibly trembles and shakes if you look close enough.

You don’t want to look close enough.

Magnus’ hair is still wet from his shower. Towel wrapped around his waist, he stands on the threshold of his bedroom, immobile. The building on the other side of the street is residential. Nothing alarming. Its roof is higher though, hidden from Magnus’ view – unless he looks up through the window, which he definitely isn’t going to do right now.

On the other side of the room, Magnus’ phone sits on his bedside table. Too far.

Behind him, a door, an exit. With just a towel to keep him from harm, he’s not going to take it. Magnus may be adventurous, but he likes his body well covered when he tries to spot a sniper.

For the first time in a long while, Magnus Bane is at loss.

His hands are useless in situations like this. No name he could come up with would save his from a bullet in the knee, no antique museum artefact having mysteriously vanished would protect him from two good eyes and a quick finger. When he arrives to the gates of Hell, he’ll have nothing to say for his defense besides “I underestimated my enemy”, and he loathes himself for it.

As a last resort, he could still take the door after all, if he holds his life so dear. Maybe the price to seeing Ragnor again would be running through the corridors of the hotel almost naked; but then he’d need a phone, and he’d need another name, and he’d need an escape route –

The dot moves.

Inch by inch, it crawls its way to Magnus’ feet and stops right there, right before the toes, half a step away from going from _threat_ to _promise_. Magnus slowly, infinitely slowly takes a step back, putting some welcomed distance between the eye of the eagle wishing his death and himself. He can hear his heart rate pick up faster and faster with every second; his blood pumps through his arteries like angry waters having broken an old dam and his ears, usually so silent, ring as loud as blaring alarms. The carpet beneath is feet is cold with bath water, soaked and squelching at every move; Magnus’ foot leaves a print behind when he lifts it again and he stares at the mark instead of focusing on anything else.

Just as slowly as Magnus retreats, the dot follows.

Magnus exhales. He puts his foot down; his eyes dance between the window and the floor – he can’t see anything. There’s only this dot on the floor and even though Magnus can’t see the face behind the scope, he knows it. He can read it. He could pick the brown of the eyes on a palette, he could tell the nose and the lips and the brows anywhere. What could it be today? Navy? A good grey? A classic black? What kind of gloves does he wear? Does he keep his good shoes on? Does he kneel or does he lay, his entire body flat against the roof? The dot shakes when Magnus looks through the window – if he’s going to kill, he should at least breathe properly. He should at least try genuinely. He should at least look at him in the eyes and ask for his name. Magnus Bane refuses to be taken down by boys too slow, too indecisive, by pretty faces so smooth they have nothing to hide. Magnus Bane wants to bite it first, he wants to fight, and this isn’t a fight. A fight would kill him fairly and Magnus refuses to admit this is fair; he wants to run, he wants to live. He has graves to come home to.

Somewhere, something listens. The dot disappears.

The floor is clean, unscathed. There is no blood and there won’t be any. The dot is gone. Magnus hands shake. He’ll go back home.

It takes him a couple of seconds to close all the blinds, grab some clothes, his phone and lock himself in the bathroom. It takes him over two hours to get out of it and even Ragnor’s voice in his earphones doesn’t lull him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

At first, Alec think he’s had one too many. It’s the first though that peaks through the fog, that could explain why he feels so weird. It’s a fever rising too fast, a flu not quite caught yet. Then he remembers he asked for water with his plate, water and nothing else; it’s not a wine, it’s not a liquor. Food poisoning maybe? But food poisoning from the kitchen of a five-star hotel would have been noticed earlier. He would have known. There would have been other people, other complaints.

So Alec must be alone then. The wall of the corridor is cold, freezing until he stops touching it, until he loses himself somewhere between rows of paintings. It’s getting dark. It’s not supposed to be getting dark. It’s early, he knows it; Izzy always mocks him for having dinner so early. It’s not supposed to be getting dark. But it’s dark.

Alec stumbles over his own feet. He’s pushed, thrown, caught, pressed by all sides yet his hands are empty, his skin is untouched; his stomach growls and screams and bites into itself. Alec whines, doubles over. He feels so much and nothing at once – there are hands in his hair and fingers in his mouth and thumbs pushing against his eyeballs, there are feet pounding his ribs and ribbons wrapping around his throat but he’s naked. His skin stops responding, like a screen left on for too long, and he swallows, digests his own voice before he remembers how to call for help.

His tongue is thick, bloated, he drowns in his own mouth yet his lips are dry and cracked. A headache bounces from one side of his head to the other as he loses balance from time to time, drunkenly swinging from left to right like a feverish passenger betrayed by the overly ambitious captain of an old boat. The corridor itself seems to undulate, as if following the back of waves, as if guiding Alec from the throat to the stomach of a great serpent, of a tortuous beast forever swallowing him. Colors fall out of phase, pulse and drip from walls; Alec's field of vision narrows yet the red of the carpet still haunts him, grips his ankles like colors aren't supposed to. There's hallucination in a corner of his head but he still feels ten fingers, feathery, soft and misplaced, holding his ankles still; there's delirium written out in white letters on his forehead - he knows it, he feels the pen, he doesn’t see the wrist but the fountain tip digs under his skin - but he doesn't trip into the carpet, oh no, it's three good hands that hold him down as the corridor keeps spinning, spinning, as if the serpent was curling into a monstrous coil. The ceiling melts away, revealing the black innards of a Greek beast, and Alec feels the floor against his face. It’s not waves, it's not even flesh, but it reacts like a wounded animal and arches, pushes back, crushes. There's pain, or maybe there's isn't; there are no bones where they used to be. Alec's head should be blank but there's poison then there's misson, then Alec gives in and there's father and a head emerges from the floor, so close to his own now. The velvet gives birth to a blinding child, or maybe to a thousand. Alec can't count, has he ever been able to? They're all red, that's all he knows, red and glossy like fresh flowers, and now his own mouth tastes red too. His tongue has burst open and his dry lips aren't dry anymore. His throat is warm, warm like a sun, pulsing like newborn’s heart. He could like it. With time. Children turn to tulips, to ashes, to mountains. Alec has seen mountains before. Mountains do not rot, they do not throb, they do not leak. These ones grow inches away from his pupils; the air they push aside turn to wind that dries out his eyes. It’s cold, it’s so cold now. A child laughs or maybe Alec hears the sea, maybe it's the slither of a mystic snake coming to get him, and maybe it'll feel better with his eyes closed.

It does.

 

* * *

 

Ragnor said he called some old friends. He said he found new walls to hide behind. Magnus could listen to him talk about cybersecurity all night, so that’s what he does.

 

* * *

 

It’s 10:54 when Alec wakes up.

Whoever shoved him in his bed did not take any of his clothes off. Even his shoes are still perfectly laced. Greasy hair and cracked lips is all he sees in the bathroom mirror. His skin has this uncomfortable grey undertone, this shade of illness that sits in the dips under his eyes. The white light stirs up a headache he’d rather have forgotten, so he turns it off.

Someone put his phone on silent; given his call history, the vibrations would have blown up his bedside table. Alec has amends to make.

There a piece of paper taped to the door of his room. Upon further inspection – and if his drugged brain is alert enough to read English – it’s not a simple piece of paper. It’s a plane ticket, bound to anywhere he chooses.

Alec tears it off the door and inspects it. There’s nothing else to be found, besides this only ticket. Not a name, not a note, no nothing, but Alec can read; the lines are hidden but they’re still there and nested between them, someone has written _leave my sight and never come back_.

 

* * *

 

“There’s nothing.”

Alec frowns, closes his eyes. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Izzy repeats. “I know. It had the same effect on me.”

Alec shakes the plastic bag containing his (now former) phone. “Not even fingerprints? No DNA?”

Izzy sighs. “I know! Nothing about the plane ticket either. Only names of some dead people who have no link to each other.”

Alec grunts and presses his palms against the table. “Back to square one then.”

“You could have shot him,” Jace interjects from the other side of the table. “It would have saved us trouble.”

Alec springs up, offended. “Shot him? Without proof?” It apparently doesn’t sound like a proper counter to Jace, who untangles his arms and steps closer to the table.

“Proof? What kind of proof are you looking for?” he barks. “You know this guy can put us neck deep in trouble. We all do! He almost killed you!”

“It wasn’t lethal,” Alec protests. He never thought he’d defend the bird against his brother but here he is. “It was just a warning. He didn’t try to kill me.”

“Because you didn’t kill him first!” Jace flares up. “You’re putting us all in danger! Next time do your job and pull the trigger.” His eyes dig deep into Alec’s and Alec know he’s not trying to hurt him; still the blow hits home.

Alec opens his mouth, finger raised, but Izzy cuts him.

“Guys!”

Voice of reasons amongst all the voices Alec has to listen to, Izzy immediately brings silence to the room. Alec lowers his hand and Jace steps back, not without one last glare for each other.

“Following him is getting us nowhere,” she calmly says. “And we lost him.”

Alec looks at her for a second. “We lost him? What do you mean?”

“The connection,” she clarifies, shaking her head. “We lost the only trace we had of him the day you told us about the poison. He’s way deeper behind…. _whatever he hides behind now_. I haven’t found him yet.”

“So what? We drop him?” Jace grunts.

Izzy nods. “Orders are coming from above.”

Alec stares in empty space for a moment. He vaguely hears his sister say something about other missions, about a thing that needs retrieval and a person that needs protection, about countries and papers, and events that haven’t happened yet, but he’s not really listening.

 

* * *

 

His name is Thomas in Ireland. Thomas misses the beach, takes care of his nails and trains for a marathon. His niece calls his Tom; he has a picture of her in his wallet, _isn’t she cute_ , and his wife left him years ago. Thomas is a good man who generously tips waitresses, helps elderly citizens cross the street, waters his neighbors’ plants during the summer holidays and is irremediably attracted to fortune 500 companies’ secrets hidden on encrypted external drives.

Thomas has light hands, but he doesn’t show it.

Thomas has two weeks to live, but he doesn’t say it.

Thomas sleeps on the second floor of a hotel so large one could lose a herd of wild horses in it. There’s no building in front of the window, there’s no blind spot anywhere. The place is safe, the bathroom tiles are cold, the bed is fresh.

Thomas is an easy man to please; he doesn’t drink whiskey but he enjoys a good cigar – in his mouth first, in others’ then. He likes how it forces pretty people to pout, to taste, to weigh; if they’re not used to it, novices have to experiment with the shape, with the smokiness that doesn’t leave their tongue. They often laugh about it and Thomas likes the view. It makes their lips silky, honeyed and sweet, it makes their hair smell like underground conspiracies and late-night confessions. He likes the way they always look at him, as though he was the prettiest, as though they were jealous. _Don’t look at me like that_ , Magnus always tells them, with the voice he chose for himself. _I don’t want you to remember my face_ , he’d like to say, but never does. Their voice bubble around his name, _Thomas_ , and it’s a perjury to Magnus’ ears but he can’t twitch at it. They like cigars in his mouth, they insert themselves between his lips along with the leaves, they look at him drunkenly when a cloud seeps between his teeth. Sometimes Magnus lets them kiss the face – with Thomas they’ll only get the body. He’s not in the mood to close his eyes.

After midnight, what used to swarm on the surface goes to bury itself under the ground, under heavy roofs, away from the sky and the last rays of moonlight. Nocturnal, hordes of thrill-seekers writhe around high tables, bet what used to be a fortune and now petty lunch money; they win sometimes, lose often, but none of it really matters. They’re here for the experience, for the adrenaline rush, for the glimmer of rare pearls and the reflects of limpid chandeliers. Casinos are more of an exercise in opulence than anything else; the most valued customers are part of the furniture, merely other elements of the decor. Their sole presence attracts the average tourist’s money, as if their good fortune had to be by their side if summoned while around one of these affluent beasts.

It never is. The house always, always wins.

Thomas can only start his job tomorrow so in the meantime, he networks.

The first person he talks to is a man far too young to have worked for all the money he’s spending. He looks down on everyone who dares share his breathing space but never actually touches a card – he has someone do that for him. The perfume he wears tickles Magnus’ throat like pollution would; when he spins around and struts to another table, Magnus doesn’t miss him.

The second person who sits at his table is a woman decades older than him. Her hair is not greying anymore, it’s full on snow white, so clear and bright Magnus wonders for a minute if she was born like that. Long gloves cover her hands but her grip is firm around her clutch. She does not drink; she smiles knowingly at their small chat. In the way she turns her sentences, Magnus can tell she’s perfected the art of guiding a conversation. Until he leaves the table, he wonders how many men she’s been a siren to, how many empires she’s tugged the strings of, then he decides he’d rather let her take these secrets to the grave.

The third person he approaches to is behind the bar. He looks at Thomas up and down; he’s seen others like him. Nothing fazes him, nothing could impress him – even if he tried to come up with something, Magnus wouldn’t be able to raise the eyebrows of the guy. He’s been through it all, but he’s a good actor. Because he probably makes decent money, guarding the alcohol in this purgatory, he has to be nice to patrons, to listen, to empathize. Magnus couldn’t do his job if he wanted to.

The fourth person he talks to is a man in a suit.

He pulls the stool next to Magnus’ and sits without much of a ceremony. His bowtie is crooked, the vest of his black suit open on two shirt buttons that have popped off, revealing a sliver of skin. When he shifts to make himself more comfortable, his thighs give a hard time to his perfectly fitted pants. One of his sleeves his rolled up and on the other wrist, silver cufflinks shine under the dim bar lighting.

After gently putting his Martini glass on the bar counter, he flicks a lock of hair away from his forehead, ever so slightly leans forwards and smiles.

It’s not the kind of smile that means _you can’t hit me in public_. It’s not the kind of smile that means _nice to see you again_ either. It’s subtle, but not mean-spirited. Magnus reads a _did you think this was over?_ , he sees as _you’re stuck with me now_. Before a list pops up in his head, he has to stop himself from reading too much into it.

“Well, hello there,” Magnus chants with Thomas’ voice, “have we met before?”

The man in the suit lets the corner of his lips reach up, genuine. “Once in dream, if I recall.”

He has a different voice than Magnus remembers, but it fits the character perfectly. Deep, warm tones and no accent whatsoever. Polished.

“Oh yes of course,” Magnus chuckles as if he had it in him to be embarrassed, “how could I forget?” Looking closer, Magnus notices the man does not have earpieces or wires sticking out of any pocket – it only makes him more careful. “I feel incredibly rude now that you remind me, I still haven’t introduced myself.” He offers a hand to the man in invitation – a naked hand that has seen and done more than enough to prepare for any eventuality. “John Doe, nice to meet you.”

The man in the suit beams and grabs his hand without showing an ounce of hesitation. Magnus doesn’t feel a needle, he doesn’t feel a film, he doesn’t feel anything; there’s only skin and muscle under it, and then blood pumping through the wrist the way it pumps through his own. The fingers hold him tight, but not too much; the hand just holds him there, as if there was nothing else to this handshake than proper salutations.

“I’m honored, mister Doe. I’ve heard so much about you,” the man says, and Magnus holds back the need to ask him if he says this as part of a polite introduction or if this is a vocal threat directed to his entire livelihood. “My name is John Doe, it’s a delight to see you again.”

Magnus smiles at the mirrored pseudonym. Of course. Their hands separate – there’s sweat on Magnus’, and it’s not his.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he answers. “I believe I haven’t given proper thanks for your hospitality last time we saw each other. I left without saying goodbye, how rude of me!” he laughs as though he had just been remembered of a sweet memory, yet all he sees when he blinks is a shaky red dot on the floor of his hotel room.

The man swats away his worries. “Please, you have no reason to feel bad. I was stuck in bed with quite the fever, it wouldn’t have been safe for you to come say bye,” he assures Magnus, and once again, Magnus hears a threat.

He’s forward, this one. Not very afraid, not very cautious. He takes shots too fast, he doesn’t know how to hold his horses. Is it inexperience talking or simply a trait of character – Magnus would bet on his naïveté, on the influence of that Thing, that part of him he hasn’t burned off yet.

He’d lie if he said he didn’t like it. Which is convenient, since Magnus Bane is a good liar.

“That’s a shame,” Magnus sympathizes. He flicks his wrist to make his drink move in his glass and look away from the man for a second. Longs stares are his forte, but he can’t show that yet. When he looks at him again, he licks his lips absentmindedly (in appearance) and he could swear he sees the man’s pupils dilate ever so slightly. “Hopefully you won’t fall sick again before the end of the season. Winters can be rough around here,” he adds to test the waters.

The man smiles warmly, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore the menace. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He takes his glass again and sips on his Martini slowly; a few seconds pass in a tense silence. There may be jazz playing in the background, but it doesn’t help. When the man turns his neck, he reveals a couple of lipstick marks nested in the curves, smudged by hurried lips and bothered hands. On top of the screwed bowtie and the worn-out suit, it paints a scene Magnus wasn’t quite expecting. He admits he likes the boldness of the move but there’s no bruise, there’s no fragrance, there’s not a single blonde hair sitting on the black of the vest. It paints a scene indeed, but the brush strokes are so obvious no one could ever mistake it for photography.

“So what brings you here?” the man asks.

“I’m here to kill a man,” Magnus answers without skipping a beat, staring right into _John_ ’s skull.

An entire trail of thought derails behind the man’s eyes; his features fall immediately, like a normal man’s would, but there’s another level to his concern, understandably. Magnus starts counting in his head. Usually, primal fear is what registers the fastest during the first second. A sudden realization of how powerless the man is must sink into his mind during the next. Finally, panic settles in like an unwanted feral cat as the man must know, three seconds in, that whatever his plan was and everything he knew before entering the room is now completely, utterly irrelevant.

Then Magnus breaks into an academically practiced fit of laughter, and the man joins in immediately.

“I’m joking, of course,” he clarifies after catching his breath – which he never actually lost in the first place. He’s not here to kill a man; this is, undeniably, a lie. “I’m visiting family.” This is also, undeniably, a lie.

“Oh, good!” the man rejoices. There’s a bounce in his knee he smothers right away. “I hope you will find them well.”

Magnus nods, his free hand playing with his own cufflinks. He tilts his head to the side and gives his best impression of a well-meaning family man. “And you? Are you staying long?”

The man shakes his head and takes another sip of Martini. “I’m just travelling. I heard wonderful things about the country,” he says, eyes lost in the distance.

The man’s bad at this, Magnus decides. He really should have practiced more, because he doesn’t sell his John Doe impression very well. What he does properly, however, is making Magnus wonder how, on this good green Earth, he could possibly have managed to find him again.

“I’m sure you will find Ireland to your taste, mister Doe – or can I call you John?”

The man gestures humbly. “Please.”

Magnus smiles. “Just remember, _John_ , if you see something that looks out of place, leave it be. You don’t want the fairies to pull your fingernails out,” he finishes with a smirk, leaning forwards ever so slightly as though he was simply reminding him of a well-known rule in local folklore.

The man looks at him intensely, his face a mask Magnus would gladly rip off. It takes him a moment to find his words.

“You’re right,” he eventually sighs, bringing his glass up. “Tourists tend to forget these things. Lucky for me, I have enough gold to appease them. I can afford to touch a stone or two,” he almost whispers, his lips barely touching the rim of his glass; Magnus hears _I have more power than you know and I want you to think about it when you should be sleeping_.

“Then you’re going to have a good time,” Magnus promises, knowing the man hears _me too_.

Visibly satisfied, the man in a suit downs the rest of his drink and puts the glass down. Without asking, Magnus stretches an arm and lightly grabs the olive at the end of the pick; his eyes not leaving his new friend’s, he eats it, barely chewing on it, and swallows when the man starts to grin.

“Well, I’m afraid I must leave you be,” Magnus says as he drops from his stool. He gently smoothes the fabric of his suit and looks up. “It was a joy to finally make your acquaintance, John.” He offers his hand again, watching for a tremble in the man’s body, for the shadow of a sign of any kind. There’s nothing to be seen.

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to keep you up too late,” the man politely acquiesces, standing up in turn. He’s taller than Magnus; wide shoulders, chiseled jaw and solid chest… _Playboy_. Playboy on a risky playground. He grabs Magnus’ hand and shakes it without blinking once, the muscles of his forearm taunt under his skin. “I hope to see you again soon, John.”

Magnus nods. When he gets his hand back, the palm is dry.

There are eyes heavy on his back when he makes his way to his room. He expected them on the game floor but not in the empty corridors, not in the elevator he doesn’t share with anyone, not once he’s out of the man’s line of sight. Looking straight at the camera in a corner of the hotel, he knows he’ll have to tell Ragnor about this. Maybe he should be careful. His face isn’t in any database, but now that this thousand-eyed monster knows what his hands feel like, he may very well ask for his head on a plate.

It’s only when he locks the door of his room behind him that Magnus realizes he completely forgot about Thomas.

This is going too far. He’s slipping away. He’s losing his focus, stumbling, fumbling; this doesn’t happen. This never happens. This must not happen right now.

Magnus has a job to do. His quick hands twitch and crave, like they always do when he knows who he is. He is Magnus Bane; he always uses the right amount of shampoo, he listens to Al Green when sleep doesn’t find him, he’s unable to pick an ice cream flavor and he always books the window seat with extra leg room. He is Magnus Bane tonight, and he hates it.

Tomorrow he’ll be Thomas and if Hell tempts him so, if a man in a suit sits at his table whether he wants it or not, he’ll also be John Doe.

Magnus tells himself he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want to see that face again. He’s watched this mouth for long enough, he’s cut himself on these cheekbones too many times in thought. There’s gold in these eyes, wrapped around the pupil, squeezed against the chocolate, and Magnus tells himself he doesn’t hear the call.

Which is convenient, since Magnus Bane is a good liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game is on. Next chapter soon.  
> Find me on [Tumblr ](http://chonideno.tumblr.com)and [Twitter.](http://twitter.com/chonideno)


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